in grief at the certainty of holding but the
second place in his bosom, I thought I could at least go and play with
them, and win perhaps their love.

_Countess._ According to our religion, a man must have only one wife.

_Zaida._ That troubled me again. But the dispenser of your religion,
who binds and unbinds, does for sequins or services what our Prophet
does purely through kindness.

_Countess._ We can love but one.

_Zaida._ We indeed can love only one: but men have large hearts.

_Countess._ Unhappy girl!

_Zaida._ The very happiest in the world.

_Countess._ Ah! inexperienced creature!

_Zaida._ The happier for that perhaps.

_Countess._ But the sin!

_Zaida._ Where sin is, there must be sorrow: and I, my sweet sister,
feel none whatever. Even when tears fall from my eyes, they fall only
to cool my breast: I would not have one the fewer: they all are for
him: whatever he does, whatever he causes, is dear to me.

_Countess._ [_Aside._] This is too much. I could hardly endure to have
him so beloved by another, even at the extremity of the earth. [_To
Zaida._] You would not lead him into perdition?

_Zaida._ I have led him (Allah be praised!) to his wife and children.
It was for those I left my father. He whom we love might have stayed
with me at home: but there he would have been only half happy, even
had he been free. I could not often let him see me through the
lattice; I was too afraid; and I dared only once let fall the
water-melon; it made such a noise in dropping and rolling on the
terrace: but, another day, when I had pared it nicely, and had swathed
it up well among vine-leaves, dipped in sugar and sherbet, I was quite
happy. I leaped and danced to have been so ingenious. I wonder what
creature could have found and eaten it. I wish he were here, that I
might ask him if he knew.

_Countess._ He quite forgot home then!

_Zaida._ When we could speak together at all, he spoke perpetually of
those whom the calamity of war had separated from him.

_Countess._ It appears that you could comfort him in his distress, and
did it willingly.

_Zaida._ It is delightful to kiss the eye-lashes of the beloved: is it
not? but never so delightful as when fresh tears are on them.

_Countess._ And even this too? you did this?

_Zaida._ Fifty times.

_Countess._ Insupportable!

He often then spoke about me?

_Zaida._ As sure as ever we met: for he knew I loved him the better
when I heard him speak so